Two Ferraris, driven by two automotive journalists, on two different journeys. The two eight-cylinder models showcase the very latest in cutting edge Ferrari Technology, with the first going via the test track at Balocco and the second along the hairpin bends of The epic Gran San Bernardo pass. Their joint destination is the incredible Large Hadron Collider, at Cern near Geneva. Second part: California
The way the ‘R’ rolls on the back of the tongue, the crisp clip of that final syllable; all of a sudden ‘California’ belongs to the Italians. The sun is already strong at this hour, early morning in mid-summer, slanting across the factory gates at Maranello. As the roof whirs and drops, a muggy warmth floods the cabin. The California is a rare creature in the Ferrari stable, possessed of high-performance technology and uncompromising indulgence in equal measure. At one end a 453bhp V8, at the other 360 litres of luggage space. Part out-and-out sports car, part drop-top GT, this bipolar product of a very 21stcentury marque warrants close attention. And, ideally, a long and demanding journey. Plunge the wheel-mounted starter and Ferrari’s first direct-injection V8 barks into life. A digital display below the analogue dials offers you the first of seven gears from the same dual-clutch transmission system that sits amidships in the 458 Italia, the very car that’s burbling at the kerbside ahead. Born of the same essential spirit, these are two very different beasts with very different tasks ahead of them.
Maranello to Geneva, one route governed by driving, the other by spectacle. Tailing the squat, flat scarlet of the 458 we head north and west towards Milan. The autostrada is thick with traffic but moving fast, pulling right to let our rather conspicuous convoy zip past before closing ranks around us. A warm wind buffets about the California cabin, carrying with it across the tarmac the sharp trill of the 458, beneath which the smooth, deep rumble of our own 4.3-litre V echoes solidly off the Armco. We stop for espresso, water and fuel, the cars instantly, inevitably, surrounded by tifosi armed with camera phones and broad grins. A beautiful blonde, slouched down on one hip, pouts from the shade towards this little frenzy of excitement, her boyfriend momentarily lost to her. Back on the road the traffic thins, the speed builds and, when our mid-engined fixed head companion peels off towards Balocco, we point north again; to the Alps and the Gran San Bernardo pass. Linking Aosta in Italy with Martigny in Switzerland, this is the oldest passage across the western Alps, climbing to nearly 2,500 metres in a relentless barrage of hairpins and switchbacks. This is the route that Napoleon took when he was invading Italy. Two hundred years ago there were few alternatives, but today this is a choice you make: a major tunnel was built in the mid-’60s that sidesteps the peak, leaving the pass largely empty of traffic at any time, a haven now for extreme cyclists and the occasional rapidly ascending Ferrari.
Snow-capped peaks begin to appear through the high haze of our Italian morning, reflecting in the cold blue of the long bonnet before us. In the near distance on the sat-nav, the once straight road begins to twist and turn, knotting and looping its way up the mountain. The ascent is fast at first, a clean, sweeping single carriageway through a short, curved tunnel where the pitch of the California’s high-revving V8 rises and reverberates. As we emerge back into brilliant sunlight the sound of the engine drops, replaced again by the whistle of a now cooler wind. In manual mode the gearbox responds lightening fast to the paddle shifters, dropping gears at a finger touch as the car approaches ever-tightening corners. Steady under braking, sharp under turn-in and back on the power, the exhaust echoing off the old cut cliff-face as we continue to climb. The pace inevitably slows as the route becomes increasingly circuitous, turning this way and that through steep, blind hairpins. Where the sun gives way to shade the chill in the air becomes increasingly pronounced, offset by a gentle waft of heat from the California’s footwell. Soon the verges are peppered with snow, increasing as we climb further up, set heavy against the rock face. The California’s tyres sweep muddy rooster tails of melting ice into these walls of white as shady corners gently thaw. At the top of the pass a hospice and monastery sit around a lake, frozen for most of the year. The cold blue of its crystal clear water is uncannily similar to the California’s colour scheme, enveloping it in an unlikely camouflage. The air is thin and the whole place beset by an incredible stillness. We park up and move quietly about. There’s a strange reverence around Gran San Bernardo, with just a handful of people talking almost in whispers. A monk pads silently past the California in robes and sandals, his footsteps audible in the frozen snow that covers the footpath. He is the only passer-by who manages not to look at the car.
When the engine fires again, the initial punch of combustion rattles around the cluster of buildings, bouncing off the distant cliffs and returning to us in staggered, familiar timbre. We begin the slow, winding descent into Switzerland, passing redfaced cyclists midway through their horrific ascent.
Approaching the bottom, the California plunges into a long half-tunnel, open on the side that follows the bank of the Lac des Toules. Here the holler of the engine pulses between the pillars as it approaches 8,000 rpm before smacking into another gear. Sun and shadow flicker like a strobe light as we surge towards Martigny and our final rendezvous in Geneva with the 458.
The warmth of the afternoon engulfs the car as we stop for more coffee, water and fuel. Thickly wooded hillsides tower above the tiny petrol station forecourt where the California sits slightly immodestly amongst a line of battered French hatchbacks and weatherbeaten SUVs. Ahead on this road is the skiing Mecca of Chamonix and beyond it the looming omnipresence of Mont Blanc, its snowcovered peak lost in a white drift of cloud. The California is a car that defies conventional expectation. Few Ferraris have ever been this approachable, practical or luxurious, yet right out of the gates at Maranello this morning it clearly carried with it all the fundamentals, the DNA that makes the marque the world’s most desirable. Absorb the world around you, but do it from the cockpit of a bona fide performance car. This is all about feeding your senses.
Published on The Official Ferrari Magazine, issue 10, September 2010
PUBLISHED IN CARS, HOME BY MATT MASTER ON 08.03.2011
Credit: Ferrari S.p.A. (www.ferrari.com)
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